


Chasing Visions of Our Future

by ghermez



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-2012 Nationals, Post-Graduation, Requited Unrequited Love, Slight Age Difference
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26234053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghermez/pseuds/ghermez
Summary: Rintarou lets his hair grow out after they lose the last nationals of Kita’s life. One August morning, he looks at himself in the mirror, sees the way it curls a little over his chin, but he simply gathers it into a low ponytail, tightening it when it immediately flops, then puts on a hat for good measure.Suna and Kita through seasons and change of heart.
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 12
Kudos: 55





	1. the fall

_**Fall** _

Rintarou lets his hair grow out after they lose the last nationals of Kita’s life. One August morning, he looks at himself in the mirror, sees the way it curls a little over his chin, but he simply gathers it into a low ponytail, tightening it when it immediately flops, then puts on a hat for good measure. 

He slips on his shoes and imagines Kita’s fingers threading through his hair. As he makes his way out of the house and into the streets, he imagines the hand in his hair forming a loose fist that pulls Rintarou’s face higher. He sees a pair of golden eyes snaring him and watching the flush on his throat. It isn’t that big of a stretch of imagination to see himself kneeling for Kita, his kneecaps complaining of the position, his stomach tightening in anticipation; he wants it so bad that he’s been dreaming of it. He wonders what Kita might look like as Rintarou’s eyes dilated in arousal. 

But the only sound in his head is of Kita’s softly whispered words, “You have so much to look forward to, Rin,” when he stood there behind the gym, asking for Kita’s second button, heart thudding in his throat. “I would rather you expand your horizons first.”

It is funny how Kita thought accepting Rintarou’s feelings was somehow robbing him of so many opportunities, when Rintarou had fevered dreams of offering his very life to Kita. 

* * *

It is hard to do things the right way, the long way, which pulls at his hamstrings and drips sweat down his neck. But Rintarou puts in the hours, wakes up at five every morning, throws on his ratty T-shirt and running shoes, does his part, prays to God that his body remembers. 

When school rolls around the corner, Rintarou’s first morning back is tinged pink with possibility. His hair is even longer, now, the ponytail tickling his neck, and his knees still protest the ten kilometer run he does before morning practice, but he pulls through. He crawls up the trail to school in his gym clothes, but not for the honorable reason of wanting to be the first to get there. No. It’s silly, really. He simply wants to spot that head of shining hair ahead of him, with barely a strand out of place or a wrinkle in his clothes. 

But Rintarou doesn’t see him. 

He runs faster and gets all the way to the gym, hoping, wishing with bated breath that maybe there, in the bathrooms scrubbing gross urinals while wearing thick rubber gloves and using industrial strength cleaner, but Kita isn’t there wearing his customary mask over the lower half of his face.

The disappointment crushes him at first then he feels a buzzing in his pocket, opens his phone and finds a text: _“Good morning, Rin. Work hard today as well.”_

It’s from Kita.

Breathless, he changes out of his sweaty clothes into a fresh pair of shorts and another ratty T-shirt—most of his clothes are ratty at this point—and joins the loud heckling of the twins. Ginjima stands in one corner, serving one ball after another, eyebrows furrowed furiously despite the sweet disposition Ginjima pretends he doesn’t have. Riseki is nearby, his face scrunched in concentration. The Inarizaki VBC isn’t a skeleton team without the third years, but it’s still jarring to line up for coach Kurosu without Ojiro standing at the head of their mismatched group. Rintarou stands in the back and fumbles with his fingers. His thighs are burning.

Now, the responsibility of captaincy falls onto different shoulders but Rintarou keeps looking around, head moving left and right, trying to find that small, compact body, sure in its movements, its strength, its muscles.

Kita-san isn’t here to shut the twins up with a glance, but the words— _work hard today as well_ —echo in his soft voice and Rintarou can almost feel his eyes, glowing, on the back of his head. 

* * *

**_Spring_ **

Suna slouches back, leaning by a tall column in the train station, a hand in his pockets and another holding a phone up. He’s got headphones on and a mask covers half of his face. Still, it isn’t much of an issue for Shinsuke to find him. Shinsuke stands at a distance, admires how Suna’s body rests not with restlessness, but a grace and confidence born of hard work.

“Rin,” he says, and Suna turns to him, eyes wide, and Shinsuke dares read _impatience_ in that glance. It’s startling but endearing. He lets his eyes scan Suna over, checking for injuries because the habit never fades away, and his heart stutters at the way Suna stands and lets him look him over. “Have you eaten?” And before Suna replies, he adds, “Let’s go have some _ramen_. My treat.”

Suna nods, the flop of his big bright orange beanie distracting, and he isn’t always the wordiest of people, but he isn’t quiet, per se. He simply speaks with his body. Now, Shinsuke can easily read anticipation in the line of Suna’s shoulders, hesitance in the way he takes his hands out of his pockets, then shoves them back in. Shinsuke briefly wonders what Suna was about to do before they are roped into the crowd of bodies leaving the station.

“How are classes?” Suna still slouches, head tilted down as he responds to Shinsuke’s questions.

Suna’s eyebrow wrinkles under the edge of his beanie. “Shitty. I got sixty-nine in English though so that’s going great.”

Shinsuke huffs out a laugh. “Oh, Suna. You can do much better than sixty-nine.”

Suna’s eyes shine. And Shinsuke gently taps his palm against Suna’s back. “How is Japanese? Have you used my notes much?”

“Ah—yeah, well, I tried my best, Kita-san,” he mumbles into his chest, and it’s too darling for Shinsuke to do much but pat his back again, letting his hand linger there, relishing in the strength in the muscle under his palm. 

The ramen place Shinsuke takes him to is one of his favorite eateries he’s found in the city. They walk in, greet the head waiter standing at the door, and they take off their coats.

This is where Shinsuke’s mind stops working properly, when Suna takes off his heavy beanie and reveals over five inches of ponytail attached to his hair, and two silver hoops through his left ear. He glimpses the right, and a spot south of his stomach quivers at the way the silver bar looks pierced through Suna’s cartilage. 

Suna’s delicate ear, small and unnaturally adorable, looks like a weapon of mass destruction with its accessories, and Shinsuke’s teeth ache. He wants to taste the metal on his tongue. 

Suna notices him watching so Shinsuke busies himself with his scarf, taking it off, twisting its ragged ends in his hands, unsure of what to do.

They’re led to a small counter, Suna on Shinsuke’s left, and it’s small enough that their knees keep knocking into one another at first, and then, no matter how Shinsuke inches away, Suna follows, pressing himself from thigh to hip to knee against Shinsuke’s, spreading fire through his body. Shinsuke inspects the menu but he doesn’t read a single word, his brain is far too preoccupied with the way Suna’s body leans forward at the waist, slouching always, but in his direction. Shinsuke steals a glance at him and sees Suna watching him, the glint of all that silver drawing his eyes as if he were a crow, attracted to sparkly things. Except Shinsuke has been far too comfortable burying his gaze, hiding his interest, and pushing aside his feelings. Because wasn’t that the right thing in the end?

“What are you getting, Kita-san?” Suna asks and Shinsuke has to cease pretending to be so preoccupied by the menu and fess up.

“I… have no idea. Everything looks good.” He flashes Suna a helpless grin but it feels more like a grimace on his face. Suna’s eyes melt. 

“Can I help you, dear customers?” says the waitress, cheery and bright, and it relieves them both, though Shinsuke feels Suna’s heavy-lidded eyes tracing his profile, lingering over his features.

_I want your uniform’s second button, Kita-san._

He can’t forget those words, spoken so confidently, not a shake in that tone, but still, Suna had slouched forward, eyes downward, and Shinsuke’s heart made a nest in his belly. _He likes me back_ , he’d thought, then logic seeped into his mind, or what he believed as logic for the longest time.

Almost a year later, he can still trace back the memory in his mind, turn it over, but he can’t, for the life of him, remember why he refused Suna’s request. He still has that button, attached to his jacket, hanging inside his tiny closet, and every time he puts on a coat, he looks at it and sees Suna’s face, unchanging even after Shinsuke had turned him down.

He thought he was doing Suna a favor, encouraging him to get on the path of _other people_. But now, sitting next to him on small stools, space nonexistent between them, Shinsuke’s mind is scrambled. 

They order the first thing the waitress recommends, and as a treat, Shinsuke asks for more pork in Suna’s bowl. Suna tucks his chin in his chest and mumbles a quick thank you. Shinsuke is wiping down his hand in the towelette she hands them when Suna’s body shifts, giving the rest of the patrons at the counter his beck, and gives Shinsuke his full attention. 

“How are _your_ classes going, Kita-san? Have you met cute girls yet?” Suna asks, his chin propped on his palm.

He picks up his glass of water, but doesn’t sip any of it into his mouth, simply letting the questions linger in the air. After he’s spent two minutes mulling it over, he says, “My classes have been well, I’m finished with my midterms for the time being and winter break is in a couple of weeks.”

Suna keeps watching him. “And?”

Shinsuke picks up the wooden chopsticks in front of him, breaks them apart, then laments the lack of further distractions. Suna’s gaze feels like the sun glaring down the side of his face.

“No…” he mumbles.

“What was that?”

“No,” he says louder, clearing his throat. “I haven’t met any girls.”

“Hmmmm,” Suna says.

Shinsuke doesn’t believe in a God, but he’s glad whatever put him on the face of earth also gave him composure that rivals a statue.

Their food shows up, deep jade-green bowls plopped before them, and Suna’s eyes leave him momentarily. He picks up a pair of chopsticks, breaking them apart evenly, and after a quiet _Itadakimasu,_ they dig in. It’s a sweet reprieve from Suna’s constant staring, but Shinsuke hasn’t eaten more than two bites before Suna comments,

“I just find it curious how a man of your capabilities hasn’t found a nice girl yet.”

Shinsuke keeps eating, but the bottom of his stomach touches his feet. 

“I mean, you’re reliable, diligent, hardworking, _handsome—_ ” the word sends shivers down Shinsuke’s spine, a response he suppresses with gritted teeth. “So why aren’t you dating anyone?” The question sounds rhetorical to his ears so Shinsuke doesn’t grace it with a response. 

But the soup doesn’t taste like much on his tongue and he chews the noodles for the sake of the hardworking cook who prepared their meal, not for any hunger. Because in that minute, Shinsuke ceases feeling any other emotion but bitterness. Some of which is sitting at the bottom of his belly and some is lingering in Suna’s words.

He opens his mouth and means to say, _I don’t know, Rin,_ but the words die on his tongue when he peers through his lashes and sees Suna’s eyes welling up with tears, a drop falling down one cheek, mingling with the soup he’s drinking. 

Shinsuke feels his mouth part, and concern washes over him, but Suna keeps eating. Shoveling noodles into his mouth like he can’t have enough.

He’s eating too quickly, though, and coughs up a little when a bite isn’t chewed properly. Shinsuke raises a fist to touch it to Suna’s back, pound it a little, but he pauses with it held up in the air. What right does he have to touch Suna?

Suna’s coughs stop, and drinking a long gulp of water, he takes deep breaths. “Sorry— I didn’t have a proper breakfast.”

Nature overwhelms Shinsuke’s better judgement and he says, quickly, “You shouldn’t do that. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day?”

“Why do you care, Kita-san?” Suna bites out.

His cheeks warm up and he looks down at his cooling bowl of ramen. He picks up his chopsticks, twirls some noodles, slurps it noisily— maybe that’ll stop the ringing in his ears, and drops flickers over his chin and cheeks. He’s about to wipe them with a tissue when a hand, slender and long-fingered, rises in front of his face. Suna. He slips the pad of his thumb across Shinsuke’s chin, and then plops it into his mouth. 

Suna hasn’t even wiped off the tear on his own cheek yet he doesn’t hesitate to clean up Shinsuke? 

Emotion forms a ball in Shinsuke’s throat and now it’s his turn to let out a hiccup and a cough, a hiccough rolling out of him, shaking his chest and jostling him. Suna doesn’t hesitate to pound his back, his fist is gentle but effective, and Shinsuke is thankful for it. 

“I am sorry, Kita-san. I don’t think I can do this again,” Suna says, voice quiet and yet it manages to break down Shinsuke’s spirits. This is just what he’s been scared of: losing Suna. 

He doesn’t notice he’s crying until Suna is gasping, muttering a quick, “God damn it, Kita-san, don’t cry— fuck it’s getting in your ramen,” but Shinsuke can’t stop. It’s his turn to hurt publicly now. And what a pair they make. He wonders briefly what he could say to convince Suna to stay a little while longer, to give him another chance.

 _I like you_ sounds too pitiful in his head. _I adore you_ is too needy. _I l_ _ove you_ might get him punched. Not after a whole year. Not after leaving him behind that damned gym with that half-hearted answer; an answer Shinsuke has regretted for three-hundred-and-sixty-five days. 

“W-would y-you want to c-come over to m-mine?” he asks, finally, and Suna lets out a soft breath, wraps his hand around Shinsuke’s wrist, tugs it away from where Shinsuke has it pressed to his wet cheeks. Suna kisses Shinsuke’s palm, his chin a little scruffy— he hasn’t noticed the growth of whiskers on him. How did that escape his attention?

Suna’s lips brush Shinsuke’s vein.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Mel for beta-reading this for me <3
> 
> Chapter 1 is here... I plan to make them suffer. 😈


	2. lemons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They are close enough for him to breathe in Kita’s shampoo—lemon—and feel his warmth—toastier than a kotatsu. It invites ideas of New Year’s Eve, the two of them cuddling in the tiny futon Kita probably—most likely—spreads open in one corner of his room every night._

Rintarou stares at his reflection hard. Then, gracelessly, lets gravity tug him low, bending him over the sink to carefully splash his face, rubbing at the tear marks on his cheeks. But no matter how hard he rubs, Rintarou can’t scrub away the look on Kita’s face from his mind. The back of his hand vividly remembers the feel of Kita’s cheeks and the hot moisture of his tears. He brings his knuckle to his lips but he’s already washed away the salt. He wonders briefly if he would ever get the chance to swipe those tears away with a flick of his tongue. If only he could swipe away all of Kita’s concern with his mouth.

His entire body feels out of sorts. The ramen sits heavy in his stomach and anticipation is swirling through his body, which makes his fingers twitch and the bottom of his feet tingle, like when feeling rushes back into his limbs after having gone numb.

In the mirror, however, his eyes look startlingly clear, nothing like the storm swirling inside him, nothing like the sea of possibility, pooling in his throat, twisting like tentacles around his arms, legs, and chest.

 _Would you like to come over to mine_? Kita had asked, voice trembling, a sound so unlike him that Rintarou had to stop to memorize it, jot down its trembling, its stuttering.

He grips the edge of the sink and tries to clear his mind of expectations. Just because he has been invited does not mean that Kita is about to change his mind about him. He could simply be behaving courteously to Rintarou’s feelings.

But that feels like the edge of a knife, slicing through him, leaving him bleeding so furiously, so hotly, that he has to bend again to catch his breath.

 _No_. Kita wouldn’t raise Rintarou’s hopes so high just to let him crash to the ground. Would he?

There is no way of knowing besides following Kita.

He watches as Kita, who is standing by the main entrance counter with his wallet in one hand hands and eyes fixed on their dinner receipt in front of him, counting bills and gently tucking them inside the small envelope offered to him by the woman at the register. Rintarou’s eyes follow the elegant curve of Kita’s back, the sweep of his short hair, startlingly shiny and neat as it falls over his forehead. He looks at Kita’s lips, opening and closing in a quiet _thank you_ , his head bowed respectfully. He bets Kita always leave a generous tip.

Rintarou’s pulse refuses to settle. It is uncaring for the five minutes he has spent inside the bathroom trying to put his self-assurance back together. His heart pounds so urgently that he has to press a palm against his chest, worried his most important organ might make a sudden escape from between his ribs. But, no, looking down at his plain dark shirt, he confirms that his rib-cage hasn’t cracked open. Yet.

He tries to watch Kita in the most casual way but when his eyes slide across Kita’s shoulders, broader somehow than they were twelve months ago, Rintarou sees arms defined in a way that had startled him when Kita had taken his jacket off. Just a glimpse of Kita makes Rintarou’s breath catch, and he has to look away. It’s a matter of wanting to appear cool and collected, though Rintarou feels anything but. Matter of fact, Rintarou has long forgotten how to be cool.

His body has been buzzing the entire day. Even the very tips of his toes feel the excitement rushing through him. He looks down and sees his nicest shoes. He had to root in his closet for fifteen minutes before he’d called for reinforcements; his mother. She gave him a pitying look and lectured him, for the three minutes she spent finding that same pair, about the importance of keeping a tidy room. He had ignored her, of course, then kissed her cheek in gratitude after he’d slipped them on.

“Are you meeting with Kita-kun?” she asked, lingering in the entrance hallway, her graying hair tied back in a low ponytail that hangs down her back. His mother often brags about having once been a true beauty of Hyogo, and Rintarou doesn’t doubt it. She has a sparkle in her eyes that stops anyone who glimpses her. But she wasn’t being very subtle right then. She looked the exact opposite; her smile was shrewd and her eyes were intelligent. Rintarou ignored her question. But she knew him well enough to add, “He’s such a nice young man.”

 _Yes, Mom, Kita Shinsuke_ is _the nicest young man. He’s also the cruelest boy who broke my heart into pieces so tiny even_ you _wouldn’t be able to find them._

But he kept his lips pursed and left after a quick goodbye and “I’ll be back late.”

“Are you ready to go?” Kita asks, and Rintarou startles a little—but to anyone watching, it’s nothing more than a slight widening of his eyes and a smooth shrug moving through his shoulders.

“Yeah.”

For one silly moment, Rintarou thinks Kita might reach for his hand, tug it close, thread their fingers together like they are an _item_ , but the hopeless daydream is quickly shoved far back in his mind because there is no space for expectations here. There is only Kita and what he might do next.

He follows Kita out of the shop, onto the streets, and down two blocks teeming with people surrounding them left and right, being jovial and brash and so unlike anything Rintarou has associated with Kita. To Rintarou, his former captain exists somewhere vast, surrounded by woodland animals, the air ruffling Kita’s hair in this fantasy is clean and refreshing. But this neighborhood is almost offensively loud and the fishy scent from the vendors selling fresh seafood is almost too much at first.

But Kita doesn’t seem very aggrieved by people calling out to him to stop and try a slice of an apple, or smell the freshness of their produce. Instead, Kita takes a deep, visible inhale that lifts his chest, his eyes closed serenely, as if he is absorbing all of it into him.

Rintarou follows suit, takes a hungry breath, because he wants to experience the very air inside Kita’s lungs. But then ends up choking because really, fish stench is not very friendly to his nostrils. He tries to casually turn the collar of his jacket over his nose, but Kita catches him. The smile springing on Kita’s face is unparalleled, so open and beautiful that Rintarou has to stop and stare.

“What is it?” Kita asks, as if isn’t obvious.

Rintarou shakes his head because if he opens his mouth now, something embarrassing will come out and ruin the entire facade of his _nonchalance_. Kita doesn’t inquire further. He leads Rintarou into alleys, and the way the noise falls back makes goose bumps rise on his skin. He’s glad he wore his heavy coat.

The building where Kita lives is nondescript. This, too, does not fit the image of what Rintarou imagines for Kita. A spacious room, full of light, maybe a couple of plants, definitely a gilded cage where a bird perching and is greeted every morning, afternoon, and evening with Kita’s calming voice.

He is jealous of the bird in his mind.

And he knows how silly he sounds even to himself.

Kita is quiet as he leads Rintarou up a staircase that might have been dim if it isn’t for the interspersed yellow light bulbs, throwing shadows around the corners and leaving half of Kita’s face in the dark. They stop at the third floor, Rintarou’s thighs barely feel the exertion when Kita pauses by a door. 312 says the faded silver number, looking startlingly bright, offsetting the dark brown of the wood.

Before Rintarou can process what is happening, with a quick movement, Kita unlocks the door and steps inside. There, when his hand goes to the light switch, Rintarou moves to stop it. Kita’s skin is so smooth, a fact that leaves him wondering if Kita moisturizes his hands twice a day, and he curls his fingers around Kita’s hand.

“Kita-san,” he says, his voice low, fearful of disturbing the peace blanketing them.

Then he realizes why his heart won’t settle. He’s been fearful during their exit from the ramen shop, their walk through the neighborhood, and their climb of the staircases. Rintarou has been scared and he’s just realized it. If he walks any deeper into this hallway, he will glimpse Kita’s way of life, his haven, his home. Can he walk in there and leave without taking a hammer to whatever pieces are left of his heart?

“We—I mean—Kita-san.” His words are a pathetic mumble.

Kita turns to Rintarou, his eyes scary bright in the dark entrance, but he’s close enough that Rintarou can smell the soup from their dinner on his breath. Rintarou wants to inch closer, inhale deeper, kiss that parted, wet mouth. But he stays put and says,

“I didn’t follow you for any reason besides curiosity, Kita-san.”

It’s true. He has discarded his hopes and dreams a year ago. Even his harsh words at dinner sound pitiful to him now. He wishes he could apologize for the way he spoke to Kita.

“I trust you, Rin,” Kita says with his eyes before he says it with his mouth.

Rintarou’s hand drops to his side. He isn’t sure whether it’s relief or disappointment coating his tongue. Kita turns the lights on. He follows Kita, as he has done the past thirty minutes, the past year, and will probably follow for as long as there is breath in his body, and takes off his shoes. He accepts the slippers Kita offers with a slight bow of his head and shuffles into the hallway after him.

“Can I take your coat?”

Rintarou nods and takes it off. He greedily fills himself with the image of Kita folding his jacket over one arm, looking as if he is Rintarou’s lover, welcoming him home after a long day. He really needs to quit watching those daytime soaps with his mom in the summer, doesn’t he? Kita keeps his own jacket on.

“That’s the bathroom if you would like to freshen up,” Kita says, motioning to a door on their left.

Rintarou shakes his head. “‘M good. Thanks.”

The entire place is small enough to fit in Rintarou’s room. There’s a small counter where Kita is probably expected to cook his meals. His heart aches at the tight fit, then wonders if Kita has brought anyone beside him into his house.

A flare of jealousy turns his blood onto a slow simmer, then he remembers the way Kita bit out that _No_. He hasn’t. Rintarou is sure of it.

“Is this all of it?” he asks, unable to help himself.

Kita gives him a tiny smile that says _it’s small but it’s my own_. “Yes, basically. I got it for a cheap price, too,” says proudly. “Would you like some tea?” he asks, though he’s already reaching towards a higher cabinet, taking out a box full of tea bags and a green kettle alongside it. Rintarou watches him fill it with tap water then take out two mugs. He sets it on a low fire. Rintarou hasn’t even said _yes_ yet and Kita is almost done preparing tea.

Emotion clogs his throat. He’s never been handed kindness in this unflinching abundance. It feels both unnerving and utterly natural to come from Kita of all people. To distract himself, Rintarou asks, “Can I look around?”

Kita arches an eyebrow. “Sure.”

“I mean it. I’m nosy,” he warns but Kita is still smiling. Though Kita does make a show out of crossing his arms over his chest as if he might reprimand Rintarou. Instead, all it does is pull at the hem of his shirt under his jacket, revealing the thinnest sliver of tanned skin that makes Rintarou’s throat go dry.

He walks towards the small corner that fits a fridge. He opens it to find it as organized as expected. There are three shelves. The first is full of dairy products; sliced cheddar cheese and a clear container of what he expects to be cream cheese. The second shelf has neatly stacked side-dishes, which Rintarou wonders if Kita made. The third has bottles of chilled barley tea, and on the far-left side, two cans of beer. This is a surprise. He picks up a can but Kita clicks his tongue.

“I wasn’t gonna open it,” Rintarou explains quickly, but embarrassment warms his neck anyway. Kita leans against the tiny counter and watches, his arms relaxing to fall by his sides. Rintarou continues his snooping. In the door there are six eggs, and a container of almond milk.

“Almond, huh?” he murmurs softly under his breath.

Kita’s voice startles him a little, “My stomach digests it better than cow milk.”

He nods absently, fond of having the knowledge of what Kita's stomach prefers. “Can I have a soda instead of tea?” There’s a cranberry flavored can he wants to crack open.

“Shouldn’t you be abstaining from soda when you’re training?”

Rintarou gives him a cheeky grin. “You got me there, Captain.”

Kita’s eyes flash at the title, but the small smile on his lips doesn’t falter.

“You did invite me out to ramen, though, so I doubt a can of soda would ruin my diet.”

“Ramen was to thank you for coming all this way to see me.”

Rintarou forgets about the soda, warmth swimming inside his stomach. He does his best to continue his charade of appearing as cool as ever as he walks close enough to stand right next to Kita, their arms merely two centimeters away from touching, waiting for the kettle to signal that it’s done boiling the water for their tea.

“How come you didn’t get a bigger place with a roommate? I thought that’s what most university students do in the big city.” He’s bullshitting. He knows very little about _university students_ , of course, he just needs to fill in the silence with words—preferably Kita’s words.

But Kita doesn’t seem to detect Rintarou’s nervous energy. He explains in a clear voice as he pours water into their tea cups, then hands Rintarou one, “I have been living with my grandmother my entire life. When I thought of moving out, my heart felt so heavy. Rooming with someone, a stranger or a friend, would have felt a little too much like replacing her.” Then he bites his lip, sending Rintarou’s heart into a wild gallop. “Besides, I wanted to experience life on my own.”

Rintarou can’t say he isn’t glad that Kita lives alone. This way, he gets to have Kita all to himself. But the thought of them, only them, in this small room where he can’t possibly stand anywhere but in Kita’s general vicinity, stirs something inside him. They are close enough for him to breathe in Kita’s shampoo—lemon—and feel his warmth—toastier than a kotatsu. It invites ideas of New Year’s Eve, the two of them cuddling in the tiny futon Kita probably—most likely—spreads open in one corner of his room every night. But that train of thought is dangerous, incredibly deadly, and he needs to nip it at the bud before he does something that would make Kita put space between them.

A name Kita brought up lights up his mind. He takes a sip of his tea. It’s sweet and flavorful.

_Obaachan._

He remembers Grandmother Kita from the times she has attended their games, wearing her lovely “Good Luck Shinsuke” t-shirt. He remembers watching her with a palpable enviousness. He, too, wanted that T-shirt. Wanted to brandish his support for Kita. Funny, since he had thought he’d only felt the warmth fondness of camaraderie. It hadn’t been until the end of that school year, when graduation day inched scarily closer, until his crush revealed itself to him.

No. Don’t think of that day. Think of something harmless. Think of Kita Yumie.

“How is Obaachan?” he asks.

Kita looks up at him, “She’s slightly mad at me.”

He raises an eyebrow. He can’t imagine anyone being mad at Kita. He is untouchable to Rintarou. Kita tilts his head low, mouth curling on a softer smile, something probably reserved just for the mention of his grandmother and answers his unspoken thoughts. “Although it’s been nearly an entire semester, she doesn’t think I should be in the city all by myself. She wants me to stay home and commute. She thinks she might feel more at ease to be there for me.” Kita shrugs. “I tried to tell her, gently of course, that I needed to experience this—” he stops.

 _Experience._ Rintarou is so sick of this word. He puts down his tea mug, half-finished, and keeps his mouth shut, waiting anxiously for more of that lovely candor from Kita.

“I… Apparently I haven’t done a great job at that, though,” Kita finishes, and he speaks this, almost too quietly, as if to himself more than to Rintarou, his cheek turned to rub against one shoulder and his eyes looking down, tugging at Rintarou’s heartstrings.

He glances down, sees how close Kita’s hand is to his on the edge of the counter, then, before he moves to touch Kita, he asks, “May I hold your hand, Kita-san?”

The question seems to startle Kita, but when he looks up at Rintarou, Rintarou seeks out _fear_ or _hesitation_ but finds neither in the glow of Kita’s brilliant eyes. Kita gives him an almost imperceptible nod. He hurries to wipe his hand on his jeans, which makes Kita let out a soft chuckle as he puts down his own mug—finished.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just—”

“I’m pathetic, I know,” Rintarou finishes Kita's sentence, quickly, not wanting to hear what Kita might call him. _Pathetic_ is the least of his problems. _Needy_ would probably have crushed him.

Kita’s eyebrow rises. “Cute was how I was going to finish that before you interrupted me.”

He clamps his lips shut, making a show of it, too. _See? I’ll be quiet_ , he says with his eyes. And Kita tucks his chin into his chest, that smile so maddeningly soft on his lips.

But not one to be deterred, Rintarou puts out his hand, offering it to Kita. He doesn’t want to be the one making the first move. He wants them both to move in tandem. He needs Kita to want him like _he_ wants him.

To his utter delight, Kita’s cheeks turn a rosy pink, pale and hardly there, but Rintarou has spent so much time looking at Kita, watching him hawk-like, seeking out a weakness. He wonders what he might have made before, before the _realization_ , before the _pining,_ of the fact that Kita blushes over holding hands.

Not just any hand— _my_ hand, Rintarou corrects. Take that, static, I, too, can ruffle the inscrutable Kita Shinsuke.

“I think,” he speaks, a poor attempt to put Kita at ease—for he sees a fluttering in his eyelashes that makes Rintarou worry. “Obaachan isn’t at fault for wanting you nearby, Kita-san. She has practically raised you. She would have wanted to be by your side during this time.”

His words seem to work magic over Kita and eyes shine as he watches Rintarou, and while Rintarou can’t discern what Kita might think, he is glad that Kita uncurls his hand from the edge of the counter and covers Rintarou’s outstretched fingers.

When he was twelve, Rintarou was obsessed with lightning. He thought it was so cool to be struck by one. He wanted to have one of those cool scars. His mother, thankfully, told him the truth. “Not many survive lightning, darling,” she said.

No, you’re wrong, he thinks now, as Kita places his palm in Rintarou’s, his fingers softer than silk, the pads of his fingers pressing into his, his palm hot from the tea mug he has been holding and a bit sweaty. Rintarou is experiencing lightning now. And it isn’t striking him. That’s the wrong word. Lightning is stroking him, feeling for his pulse in his wrist, running its fingertip from his pinky to his thumb. His chest—and a southern region of his body—warms up at the feather-light touch of Kita’s fingers.

“Kita—” Rintarou tries, but the name comes out all choked up and wrong, so he swallows it and tries again, “Shinsuke…san.”

Kita’s eyes could ruin him. “Yes, Rin?”

“Is Grandma the only person you miss?” he manages to push through the blanket of lust thickening in his throat.p

“No,” Kita says. It’s an insufficient answer. He needs details. He needs names. He needs Kita to open his mouth and— “I miss the team.”

Rintarou breathes out a sigh. “You aren’t missing out, I’m afraid. The twins are as…” he sighs again. “They’re that. A sigh. A pain in the neck and back. Ginjima is graying early because of them.”

Kita throws his head back and a sound like the tinkle of a bell, charming, precise, leaves his mouth. Rintarou has promised himself to practice control, but that giggle—he has made Kita _giggle_ —makes him want to close the distance between them and put his mouth on Kita’s, eat his sound, let Kita breathe laughter and joy into his heart. With great difficulty, he holds himself still. Kita continues to trace Rintarou’s palm, finding his heart-line—Rintarou wonders if Kita can read those messy lines and see his future—whether Kita wants to see _himself_ in his future.

“But they’re marvelous, aren’t they?” Kita asks.

The Miya twins. Ugh. Why are they talking about _them_?

“Sadly, yes. It seems like every game we play they level up or something. They’re terrifying.”

Kita’s eyes shine, and Rintarou is reminded of Kita’s words from last year. _A monsters’ ball._ “Are they whipping up the team to good shape?”

It’s Rintarou’s turn to look away, rub his cheek to the shoulder of his shirt. “Yeah, they’re insatiable. I can hardly have a moment to breathe.”

Kita laughs again. “How did you escape them today?”

“I lied about having a dentist appointment.”

Kita clicks his tongue. _Tch_. The sound is so charming that Rintarou really wants to kiss Kita. No. You’re in control, he reminds himself. Then he thinks: why am I in control? Am I not here for something… _more?_

“Did you miss me, Shinsuke-san?” Rintarou asks, emboldened by their hands touching, caressing, as if they’re engaging in a tentative dance of their own.

Kita’s eyes don’t really meet his gaze, but they linger over his neck, watching the bob of his throat as he swallows thickly, and when Kita does look up at him, it’s fleeting and shy, matching the tinge of red coating his cheeks.

“I—”

“I missed—”

They talk at the same time.

“Sorry, you go ahead,” Kita says.

Rintarou clamps his teeth on his lip, takes a deep breath, and says, “I missed you. I miss you. Always.”

Kita’s eyes look up—flutter, flutter—and Rintarou has to remember how to inhale and exhale. “I actually kept trying to find you on the path to school every morning. But… you weren’t there.” He doesn’t know why he confesses to such a pathetic truth, but Kita’s hand tightens around his, squeezes once, and his eyes don’t look away. So, Rintarou tells him one more thing: “I grew out my hair hoping you’d touch it. Hoping you’d touch _me._ ”

Yet, it seems to break the spell surrounding them. Kita drops his eyes and his hand, and leaves Rintarou like an unmoored boat, lost in the sea, not knowing where to go.

“Uh—”

“I’m sorry,” Kita bites, and he moves away, quickly, into his bedroom. Rintarou is helpless to simply follow and watch the back of him, nervously pacing. It’s so unlike Kita to pace, he has no experience dealing with a Kita who’s clearly anxious enough to run a track in his floors like a caged tiger. He stands to the side of the room and doesn’t even get to take a proper look at the low table, the piles of books neatly arranged by the bed, books on agriculture and business and machinery, before Kita is handing him his coat and says, again,

“I’m sorry.”

* * *

Rintarou walks to the station with an almost inhumane numbness spreading through his bones. The early December air is frosty in his throat, his lungs, but Kita's rejection—again—is far colder.

He makes it home an hour later, and the appearance of him must shock his mother into silence. She simply offers him the bath first, to which he gives her a weak _thank you_.

When he sleeps that night, he has frightening dreams of lighting striking him. It isn’t gentle at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [rubs hands like a fly] Happy birthday to me. Yell at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/kuroosboobs)


	3. spring, again.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But there’s still the unspoken question settling in the air between them. “Even after last time?” Rintarou asks it because he isn’t a coward who’s hiding behind aloofness. Not anymore. There is no space for insouciance when his body feels like a starving field seeking out Kita’s monsoon._

**_Winter, still._**

Rintarou is grateful for volleyball and despite everyone’s opinion of his tendency to slack off when the team is ahead, he does love the game. He might not be as overzealous as the Miya boys, or as dedicated as Kita had been, but he loves it. It is his solace after Kita’s whispered those “ _I’m sorry,_ ” and the gaping maw opening in his chest. There is peace in listening to two monstrous twins argue over the most insignificant detail in their Karasuno-inspired freak quick, the sounds of their childish name-calling almost too good of a distraction. Although they do sound a little inane at times.

(“I’m better at serving than you.”

“Shut your fugly face, ‘Sumu.”)

But no matter how many kilometers Rintarou runs in the morning and serving practice he puts his body through, nothing will ever be as delicious as the sheer bliss of victory.

Their opponent is Karasuno again. It’s the third round of Nationals and Rintarou’s final year to prove something—who himself? To the world? There is a visible gap where Karasuno’s ace and captain used to be, alongside that cheerful, terrifying setter who made even Kageyama look like a harmless kitten. In their stead, there is an even more terrifying captain everyone calls Ennoshita-san, an ace capable of drowning out the sounds of even last year's Bokuto Koutarou and his litany of “ _Hey! Hey! Hey!”_ (Who, apparently, is currently playing for some minor team in the Volleyball League, but still, it’s the pros.) Karasuno’s libero is sharp and brilliant as ever, his movements so fluid it takes all of Atsumu’s strength to break through and score with his deadly serves. Then there’s that captivating trio with their pinch server. Rintarou nicknames them the terrifying four in his head. Every player of Karasuno, whether starting or benched, looks across the net with blood thirst in his eyes. Crows are indeed carnivorous, but Inarizaki grabs the win with teeth, claw, and sweat. The twins are overly joyous afterwards, slamming their drenched bodies with every willing body that approaches, including none other than Aran’s and Kita’s.

Rintarou is riding high from the win but the blood in his veins still freezes over at the sight of familiar shining hair. Instantly, he’s thrown back to that small apartment, the scent of lemons in his nose, and the taste of bitter disappointment and tea on his tongue. Alas, he cannot remember the feeling of Kita’s hand in his anymore. (Lie. He remembers it as if it were yesterday.)

“Kita-san!” The team rushes to greet him, then, with equally enthusiastic, sweaty hugs, swarm Ojiro, who tries to put on a show of hating when every can clearly see his bright grin and proud eyes. Rintarou’s eyes don’t dare steer away from the calm smile on Kita’s mouth.

They lock eyes and that curve on his lips, so lovely, wavers a little, then widens, revealing sharp incisors.

“You were amazing out there, Rin,” Kita says, and with those few words, the bolt of lightning lodged into Rintarou’s heart, blocking off his air and blood flow, fizzles out, and he’s left panting, not from the excursion of playing three long, grueling sets but from the intensity of _love_ slamming into him. He doesn’t get the chance to reply to Kita’s kindness, his praise turning on the light in Rintarou’s dim chest. The former captains leave the team to gather its wits and move on with their day, disappearing amidst what seems like hundreds of spectators.

Yet there Rintarou stands, his heart gaping open.

He has fancied himself the broken-hearted hero of a failed love story, left to mourn a love that didn’t get the chance to glimpse the light of day, but he is still standing, slightly bent forward from the weight of sweat on his back and ache in his legs, with a full heart, in an arena so loud he can hardly hear his heartbeat. Another lie, lie, lie. He hears it quite clearly. He feels the resurgence of a seedling of fondness break through the damp concrete he poured all over his heart. Did he really think he was anywhere near being done with loving Kita Shinsuke? With worshiping the very curl of his lips? With daydreaming of the scent of lemon in his bed, on his pillow, seeping into his very core?

They have another game to play that day, some Tokyo team called Nekoma, which Rintarou remembers watching Karasuno beat last year, so Inarizaki members shuffle into the stands and find their belongings. Some grab their jackets immediately, chilled by the bite in the January air, and some go for food.

Rintarou pushes back the escaped strands of his hair—it brushes his collarbones now when left untied—and fastens it into a tighter ponytail.

“You’re going to go bald quickly,” Osamu murmurs, shoveling an entire onigiri, the size of Rintarou’s fist, into his mouth.

Rintarou ignores Osamu and zips up his jacket, murmuring a quick, “I’ll be back,” then rushes in the direction of the exit. He doesn’t know if they’re gone or not but he has to at least try to find them. His life feels like it depends on it. He has to see Kita again and confirm whether what had taken place in Kita’s kitchen didn’t destroy whatever they had.

Had Rintarou’s clearly lascivious invitation doused the kindling Kita had in his eyes for him? He can’t forgive himself until he finds out.

He’s breathless, sweat slaking down his back, but he finds Kita so it’s all been worth it. Rintarou practically runs in Kita’s direction, for once ignoring the fact that they’re standing in the middle of the shopping center where Ojiro is getting a white T-shirt emblazoned with a cheesy quote in bright red.

“K—” Rintarou cuts himself off. No. He can’t go back. “Shinsuke-san!” he says loud and clear. Kita’s lowered head snaps in his direction, and Rintarou nearly falls onto his knees, crying in relief, but he holds himself still, like he’s been holding himself still for a long, long time, and waits.

Kita excuses himself from Ojiro, though Ojiro seems unconcerned with the notion of being left alone to peruse every T-shirt the stall has to offer. Kita walks to Rintarou with short steady steps, and the closer he gets to Rintarou, the easier it is for Rintarou to parse out just how many ways Kita seems to have changed from that final long look he’d given him. A warm pink shade is blooming across Kita’s cheeks by the time he stops in front of Rintarou. There is a distinct shade of blue, and Rintarou imagines it’s the result of staying up late finishing up assignments, shadowing his eyes and turning the paper-thin skin under Kita’s eyes into an almost sallow color.

“You came, Shinsuke-san,” Rintarou says weakly in lieu of reaching out and touching the back of his hand to Kita’s cheek. He makes sure to keep his fisted hands by his sides. He cannot make the same mistake again. He cannot scare Kita. Because after Rintarou had spent many nights turning that look in Kita’s eyes over and over again, studying it under a microscope untainted by his instant hurt feelings, he could see that underneath it all, Kita had been scared. Of Rintarou? He still has no idea. But while now isn’t the time, he intends to find out.

“I wouldn’t miss your game for the world,” Kita replies but the words sound perfunctory to Rintarou’s ears. He wants to scream _who cares about the game, come for me_ , but he gulps down his teenage angst. They don’t have a lot of time; he can see Kita reaching to check his phone. Rintarou has decided during those long, grueling, morning and evening sprints that if he was going to be hanging onto one thing, it’ll be his ever-strengthening emotions, the fact that no amount of angst and second guessing will succeed in frustrating him. He needs to be patient for both him and the bud of an emotion growing against all odds at the very heart of him. Because loving Kita would never, ever stop being so goddamn good.

“Can I—I mean, is it okay if I text you later?” He doesn’t even know what he will send Kita yet, but he figures he’ll find out when _later_ comes.

Kita tilts his head to the side in a movement so cute that Rintarou wants to bite his fists bloody, but he simply tightens his fists, wincing inwardly at the sharp pain of his nails. He should have filed them more carefully. “Of course, Rin. You can text me anytime you like.”

But there’s still the unspoken question settling in the air between them. “Even after last time?” Rintarou asks it because he isn’t a coward who’s hiding behind aloofness. Not anymore. There is no space for insouciance when his body feels like a starving field seeking out Kita’s monsoon.

Kita’s eyes soften and some of the exhaustion there eases away, or so Rintarou imagines. He’s trying to convince himself that he can do that for Kita, make him feel lighter. He so badly wants to be Kita’s solace, but he cannot become something without explicit permission. And to get Kita’s permission, he needs to know that he didn’t sever that delicate thread he felt untwisting between them, first in the ramen shop and later in Kita’s kitchen as they spoke of Kita’s grandmother with the sound of tea boiling in the background.

“Yes,” Kita says, and it feels like Kita is splitting open Rintarou’s chest, nestling between his ribs, and trusting Rintarou to close around him and keep him protected.

\--

Inarizaki wins. Wins. And wins again. And Rintarou still prefers the sight of Kita’s eyes scrunching into a smile and his mouth curling into a proud grin.

\--

**_Spring, again_**

**9:35 PM Rintarou:**

did u know that frogs drink water with their skin? i wish that were me 😫 it’s so hot for spring!!!🙁

**9:50 PM Kita-san ♡:**

Sorry I was in the shower.

Global warming is very real, Rin.

And clearly studying for your finals is going well. 

**9:55 PM Rintarou:**

~~😉 not as hot as u~~

…

_This message was deleted._

ok ok ok im so sorry please ignore that

 **10:00 PM** **Kita-san ♡:**

I’m sorry I think I’m going to sleep soon. Goodnight, Rin.

**10:01 PM Rintarou:**

good night. ✨ 

**2:20 PM Kita-san ♡:**

Congratulations on graduation. I wish I could have been there to see you and the rest get your diplomas. I am very proud of you, Rin.

**2:22 PM Rintarou:**

thank u!!!! i wish u were here too!!! 😞

**2:23 PM Kita-san ♡:**

Aran says hi. 🙂

**_Summer_ **

It’s far earlier than humanly possible and there’s no reason for Rintarou to be awake, but his special ringtone for Kita Shinsuke shakes him into consciousness.

**7:25 AM Kita-san ♡ sent you a photo.**

**7:25 Kita-san ♡:**

I saw this little friend on my morning walk to class. 🐕

The picture Rintarou clicks through and peeks at with crusty eyes is of a small puppy, all black except for a heart-shaped white spot on the very top of his head. Rintarou’s smile is involuntary.

**9:00 AM Rintarou:**

send me a selfie, shinsuke-san 🥺

**9:50 AM Kita-san ♡ sent you a photo.**

**9:50 AM Kita-san ♡:**

Just got out of my last class. Did I wake you up?

Rintarou is in the process of eating breakfast and watching morning cartoons when he gets an eyeful of Kita. He’s dressed casually in a collared grey shirt that only makes Rintarou’s breath catch in his chest. The picture is brightly lit, but Kita’s face is dappled, the trees surrounding him every inch part of him as the gentle smile on his lips and the fall of his hair, which is short enough to expose Kita’s smooth forehead. Clearly, this new haircut is a blessing.

**10:00 AM Rintarou:**

i've been looking at this pic for 3 hours 😭

**10:01 AM Kita-san ♡:**

But I only sent it 11 minutes ago.

**10:01 AM Rintarou:**

it's cute how u think i can’t warp time to spend more time staring at ur selfie, kita-san 🤔

**10:05 AM Kita-san ♡:**

Sorry, a classmate stopped by for a minute.

Also, I thought…

**10:05 AM Rintarou:**

rude. interrupting precious kita-san-time 🤨

and…those epilepsies are giving me a headache. 🥴

what is it???? 😩

**10:06 AM Kita-san ♡:**

Do you mean ellipsis?

She was asking about our exam at noon.

And I thought we were closer than last-name basis.

**10:07 AM Rintarou:**

OH MY GOD we all know im all beauty and 0 brains i guess 😫😫😩😩

A GIRL?? 🔫 keep away from kita-san

Oh.

Oh!

😳😳😳😳😳

**10:10 AM Kita-san ♡:**

Do I need to remind you that you’re one of the most valuable players Inarizaki has ever had, Rin? That your blocking method is brilliant?

Rintarou needs to take a long lap around the living room, startling his mother and disturbing the general peace, before he sits back down and sends a hastily reply that he hopes doesn’t reveal a little too much of his ever-growing feelings for Kita.

**10:14 AM Rintarou:**

Thanks, Shinsuke-San. ♡

**10:15 AM Kita-san ♡:**

Better.

I have to meet Aran in the library in fifteen minutes. Talk later?

**10:15 AM Rintarou:**

i still can’t believe ur taking a summer class….blegh

**10:16 AM Kita-san ♡:**

You’ll understand soon, high school graduate Suna Rintarou.

With a heavy heart, Rintarou lets Kita go, but not before sending him an obscene amount of emojis that make no sense to either one of them, but Rintarou doesn’t need to make sense, he simply needs to bask in the glow of having had Kita text him for fifteen minutes. The best quarter of an hour of his life shouldn’t come this early, but he doesn’t fret too much.

\--

“Who are you texting so much?” Aran mumbles as he slumps forward in his seat. They’ve been cramming so many units for their Economics 102 exam at noon, and it’s finally getting to Aran.

Kita, however, doesn’t seem very bothered. He’s as unruffled as an hour and forty-five minutes ago when he walked into the library with the sun shining on his back and his phone clutched in one hand, a coffee in the other for Aran.

Aran had accepted it with skepticism, which only grew when Kita refused to come out and spill the reason behind the way he looked like he’d been walking on a cloud. It isn’t that Kita has been particularly a gloom about him that offset Aran’s entire perception of him since he’d met him in high school, but the change from the capable, unerring Kita-san of Inarizaki, to the dazed and confused freshman Kita had been starting to worry Aran. Today, though, he sees glimpses of the old Kita, as if he’s regaining some of his color.

“Aran, do you think your feelings toward someone you’ve known for a long time can suddenly change?” Kita asks, and it’s so out of left field that Aran has to blink through the haze of facts swimming around in his mind to focus on the matter at hand.

“Feelings? Hm…” He leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest, and thinks. “Maybe. What’s the context?”

Kita avoids his eyes, deliberately looking up at the beams in the ceiling, the sun filtering through the glass of the high window to shine on him, turning him almost godly. Aran’s mother would chastise him for taking the lord’s name in vain like that even in his thoughts—especially in his thoughts, where only he and God could listen.

When Kita continues to avoid his eyes, Aran sighs and decides to bare a little of his own soul to coerce him into revealing what’s on his mind. “I guess it could happen. Especially since we’re only ever experiencing life. You could say that the feelings and opinion we had in relation to and for certain individuals in our lives have been warped by space and time and societal influence. Now, we’re out in the real world, and we get to have some semblance of control over our thoughts.”

Aran isn’t sure he’s making any sense; he doesn’t understand what he’s attempting to say. But he’s started so he can’t quit halfway, “Because, let’s be real about it, all those years of being cooped up in the same spaces with the same people, no matter how many times you change seats or classrooms, we were still surrounded by the same regurgitated social groups and, in a way, being conditioned to assimilate in a way. We have just started to form real opinions when we’re ejected from that environment.”

Kita’s stare looks blank to Aran at first, then the fog clears away as Kita smiles. “I see.”

“That’s all? I philosophize for an hour and all you have to say is _I see_?” he’s overplaying the role of overbearing best friend, but Aran does it knowing fully that Kita doesn’t mind it.

Proving him right, Kita lets out a soft laugh and says, infuriatingly handsome in his relaxed manner, “Yes.”

They go back to studying, finishing up another unit amidst Kita’s clear, calm voice explaining theories, and Aran’s deep wish to tear out every hair he’s decided to grow on his face. “Enough, enough,” he moans at twenty-to-twelve. “If I hear one more word, I’ll just vomit.”

Kita wrinkles his nose, but he keeps highlighting bits in his notebook. Despite every indicator that Kita is a paragon of neatness, he has the messiest handwriting. Aran thinks that this fact humbles Kita a little, but then, not even messy notes can make the girls (and bright-eyed boys) stop flocking him in the classroom.

They’re walking out of the library, Aran stopping at a vending machine to get another cup of coffee for himself and tea for Kita, when Kita picks up where he’d left Aran hanging, as if no time had passed since his question,

“I am seeing this person in a new light, and no matter the way I turn them over in my mind, they manage to steal my breath away.”

Aran picks up his paper cup and says, “Well, whoever this person is, I like them.” He bends then hands Kita his tea.

“What makes you form such a snap judgement?” Kita speaks quietly, and Aran wonders how deeply Kita truly feels for this person.

“Because if they’re the reason you hold your phone like that and smile so dreamily that half of the people in our class are probably in love with you, then they’re obviously worth it.”

In a manner utterly unlike Kita, he blushes. It’s the same shade as the sky blending into the earth before sunset. With a start, Aran realizes that time has sneaked up on them, spreading sweet possibility in the air. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _slams head onto table_ I GIVE U SOFTNESS IN SLOW BURN BECAUSE I CAN'T DO MORE ANGST. i hope you enjoy this absolutely darling chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Dan for [this fanart of Suna](https://twitter.com/DAN_200204/status/1300412412584054784). i'm on twitter as [@kuroosauce](https://twitter.com/kuroosauce)


End file.
